Shine On You Crazy Diamond
by thursdaysisters
Summary: Killer-for-Hire Jared agrees to help Detective Ackles on a drug bust, but will memories of their childhood crush put everything at risk? And what will Jensen do when he realizes the priest he's looked up to all his life is a vigilante hunting down drug dealers? J2 and Cockles slash, violence, language. Inspired by quickreaver's MoL Sam art
1. Neon Noir

**Inspired by quickreaver's MoL (men of letters) Sam**

* * *

Detective Ackles hardly recognized his old classmate. Though Jared still wore the glasses, years of fighting had burned off the puppy fat, tattoos marking his arms and chest, with a line of Spanish poetry peaking out from his waistband. An orange vacancy sign hummed next to the window, and the light drew hard lines around his body as if he were carved from wood.

Jared took a last pull and dropped his cigarette on the floor. "Okay I'm in," he said, leaning against the wall, "What's the plan?"

Jensen stuck his hands in his hoodie pockets. He'd bought the ensemble off a junkie for fifty bucks, and it smelled like old trash, but the hotel was full of Crowley's men and he needed to blend in.

"There's gonna be a lot of hustling at the block party this Friday," he began, "Meg moved twenty kilos of coke last week, we don't know where, but it's in this neighborhood. The D.A.'s already got an investigation going, if we can bust enough dealers at the party, we can hopefully find her stash _and_ one or two people willing to testify against Crowley."

A smile toyed at the edge of Jared's mouth, impressed against his will. Jensen had been so shy when they were kids, and now...

"Am I one of those people?" he asked.

"I'm not here," Jensen clarified, "We never had this conversation. As far as the city's concerned, you're just an anonymous tip."

"What do you need from me?"

"Just keep me informed about Crowley's men. Who's close to him? Who's a soft touch? Who runs to their mom's house when the five-o shows up? And stay close, I'll need back-up in case things go south." He did not smile, but his eyes glittered. "You a good shot?"

Jared snorted and slapped a new pack of cigarettes. Back in the day, he'd killed so many men for Crowley that the boss had splurged and given him an Aston Martin for his sixteenth birthday.

"I'm okay," he said, flicking his lighter and cursing, "Crap I hate these free ones they give out."

"Here," said Jensen, "Mine's running on fumes but..."

Jensen thumbed his own lighter, cupping his hands around the weak spark. Jared leaned over him, smelling of gin and aftershave, and pushed the end of his cigarette into Jensen's palms. For a moment his face glowed in the cold blue flame, and Jensen's eyes flicked down and up again slowly. He wondered how far down the Spanish poem went.

"You got any money tucked away?"

"Yeah, not like a ton, but enough. For when I got too old for this," said Jared, exhaling through his nose, "Why, you need a new shirt?"

Jensen blinked. "These aren't my clothes."

Jared laughed, a warm rolling sound that Jensen had nearly forgotten. "I dunno how you got past the door in that, you look like a trust fund slummer."

"I had to blend in."

Jared stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. "Nobody gives a fuck, so long as you're not wired," he said, pulling Jensen out of the chair, "Raise your arms."

Jensen turned a little pink. "I'm not wired."

"I know, I'm taking off that filthy fuckin' rag. You show up at Crowley's party, you gotta look like you have class money," he said, "What're you, twenty inch in the shoulders?"

"Twenty-one," said Jensen, smiling, as if they were ten again and raiding his dad's suit collection, "I've been working out."

The two o'clock Miami rains pattered against the window. He let Jared peel off the hoodie and toss it in the sink, then relented and let him take the cargo pants and sneakers as well. It must have been ninety-five outside, but Jensen crossed his arms over his chest.

"Here," said Jared, tossing some clothes on the bed, "You wanna take a shower too?"

"No, I'm ah I'm good." said Jensen, a little too quickly, "I'll change in there, just a sec."

Jared waited, smoking and watching stormclouds drift over the ocean. Down below, four boys were pushing a dead car, parking it sideways at the end of the street and running back to fetch another. The whole neighborhood would be barricaded by sundown. Anyone who wanted to make the party tonight had to be on foot.

"How does it look?"

Jared turned, about to say "fine" and change clothes as well, then stopped. The suit was tailored, a deep chocolate that set off his eyes, with a french cuff shirt unbuttoned at the top and leather shoes as soft as a mother's breast. Jensen hadn't shaved in a few days, and it gave him a meanness he did not himself possess. Jared had a sudden flash of them as kids, swimming in too-big office jackets, giggling at dirty jokes, a stolen kiss in the dark...

Jared reached behind him to set the cigarette in an ashtray, and went to refold Jensen's handkerchief.

"You never learned to fold a pocket square?" Jared asked, tucking it into Jensen's breast pocket.

Jensen snorted. "Who cares so long as I look expensive?"

Their faces were very close, Jensen's mouth pink and wet in the afternoon heat. Jared let the question go unanswered. "I'm gonna change," he said, turning away, "Meet you behind St. Jude's at nine?"

Jensen nodded, happy to put his cop hat back on. "Will do."

* * *

A knock at the door and Crowley looked up from his steak. "Yes?"

Meg hesitated. "Chico's at the door for you."

Tossing his napkin on the table, he stood to leave the room when he caught Meg's expression. "What is it?"

"Nothing I...have to return a phone call." she said, walking to the rear of the house. Crowley sniffed and watched the door shut behind her.

He stood before the front window. It was still dark out, and with the hall light behind him the pane glass reflected him in neat sections. A man lay curled in a ball, no shoes, no shirt, the knees of his bluejeans torn and bloody.

"Damn, did you crawl here?" Crowley asked, touching the Chico's arm, "Stand up."

Chico shook his head, and Crowley saw that someone had cut the soles of his feet. The sky began to lighten in the east, and several police cars zipped across the interstate flashing their party lights.

"Who did this?"

He whimpered and set his cheek against Crowley's patent leather shoe, pointing toward a bridge in the distance.

"He came for us," Chico whispered, "After we put a hit on Monroe and his wife."

EMTs rushed to haul up the bodies, dangling so low their shoes brushed the tops of cars, and they swung back and forth bumping into each other like the devil's desk toy. You couldn't see their faces for the birds covering them.

Crowley set his teeth. "Misha."

* * *

**EARLIER THAT NIGHT**

The factory had caught fire years ago. Now stars shone through the roof, with collapsed beams hanging at eye-level and a poplar growing in the elevator shaft. Chico awoke in an old armchair, and when he rubbed his temple his hand came away bloody.

He was reaching for his gun, not finding it, when his eyes fell on the five steel drums, suspended by chains, bottoms glowing red, paint blistering over a fire so vast it licked the ceiling. He froze, for he thought he knew the men inside them, but no longer recognized their voices. They sounded like dogs that had learned to scream. They smelled like a Christmas ham.

Then something blocked his way and Misha stood before him, his body edged in flames. Chico held up a hand to ward him off, but Misha pulled something from his coat and held it out for him to take.

Chico turned the tape player in his hands. "What is this?"

Misha said nothing, and after a moment Chico pressed Play.

"...County 9-1-1, police, ambulance, or fire."

A child sniffled on the other line. "He-he-he's here, I think he hurt Daddy, he's here right now in Mommy's room and there's b-blood all over the kitchen and-"

Shuffling noise as the phone was transferred, and a slightly older boy took over. "It's alright officer," he said blankly, "Everything is alright."

"Wait gimme back the phone-!"

He could still hear Monroe's kid crying when the tape stopped, the play button popping up beneath his thumb. The fire was so hot it made his hair curl, but Misha placed his hands on either side of the chair, the fire throwing his face in sharp relief, and Chico dared not move.

"Now," said Misha, sparks reflected in his black eyes, "How does that make you feel?"

The fire spun clockwise, ash funneling upwards toward the moon, and the man clapped his hands together in prayer. "It was just a job."

"Don't look to me," he said, his breath hot on the Chico's mouth, "Ask for God's forgiveness."

"Please," Chico pleaded, slipping off the chair to his knees, "I yield! I yield!"

Misha surveyed him. At first the man thought he saw a glimmer of hope, that the priest might concede this one. He wrapped his arms around Misha's legs, head thrown back in a gesture of complaisance.

"No."

Chico waited for more. But the silence grew, and Misha's stare weighed on him, distant, as if Chico were already dead and his crimes now beyond Misha's jurisdiction. As if some great horror was rising up to meet Chico, and would stretch out to pull him through the very stones of the earth.

He let go of Misha's legs. "Please I'm beggin' ya, I'm down on my knees..."

"You kneel to my face, but in your heart..." said Misha, flicking open a switchblade with a wicked gleam in his eye, "...you're still standing."

* * *

TBC


	2. A Bad Catholic

**Wrote this on a magazine ad during a plane flight. Dang I love writing noir. **

* * *

The Sisters of the Open Heart were all newly immigrated from Haiti, young girls who lost their home in the 2010 earthquake and craved the life of holy servitude.

A sedan blocked the church entrance, the driver side door open and black with blood, while two bare-headed nuns fussed over a man who looked like he'd been dipped in marinara sauce. Down the hall, three other girls were enjoying their dinner, peanut butter crackers with boxed apple juice, crowded around a length of butcher paper with crayons. One sketched a horse, one shaded it in, while the third had no talent for drawing, and was content to fill in the margins with ivy.

Detective Jensen was early. He stood by the main office, whistling as the clock ticked toward his appointed time. After a few minutes a nun with a rolling trashcan wheeled toward him, hands folded at her chest, her afro backlit by the streetlamps in beatific neon.

"The Virgin weeps when you whistle."

He smiled, noting the Coke bottle in her trashcan, and countered, "The Virgin weeps when you don't recycle."

She scowled and pushed on, when he heard his name called.

Books lined three walls of the church office, most of them so old they had been rebound and the titles stamped on the spines by hand. Misha sat behind a great oaken desk with six young nuns standing behind him, passing him papers or covering a phone reciever to write names for him on a legal pad. No one spoke. No one touched him.

And then he glanced up and he was fourteen again, watching the prom king sidle into class after the last bell. Despite his jokes, Jensen remained poised in his chair, alert as a racehorse awaiting the starter pistol, the years weighing heavily on him. But then he smiled back at Misha, and he was himself again. Burned, but still pink on the inside.

He took the chair opposite and offered up a cigarette. Misha studied him, undecided. Smoking, like humor, was something best left unfed.

"Your guy looks pretty beat up back there," said Jensen, stowing the pack back in his jacket, "Did you call the police?"

Misha leaned back, regaining his place of authority. "That's not how we operate here."

"Is this mercy on your patients? To let these things happen in silence?"

A young nun gripped Misha's chair arm possessively, her voice barely above a whisper. She raised a hand in warning to him. "No," she said, "But God has set His plan for this city. Though we can but glimpse the future, we pray that Shepherd's heart might be hardened and cause him to persue the path of the unrighteous, and that on that day God would turn His back on him," she said, her hand falling, "And see him no more."

Another girl spoke from the shadows. "We are to be His witnesses, practicing the way in silence..." she said, her words flat, as if read from someplace in the distance, "...until we are given a voice."

Misha stood. "Sisters, we can finish this tomorrow," he said, showing Jensen the door, "Let's go for a walk."

A roof garden overlooked the skyline, and sitting on a milk crate Jensen lit two cigarettes and passed one to Misha. He smiled, recalling the days when they would sneak away with whatever half-cigarettes people had dropped at the gas station. Misha had been excused from the school sex ed program, and somewhere in his vast library was a biology textbook with Jensen's fevered underlining all over the chapter on masturbation.

Misha inhaled, and swung his cigarette away in a wide arc like only new smokers do. "What brings you back home?"

"Got a job this weekend."

"Yeah I got your voicemail, can I be of some aid?"

"I got the easy one tonight, Padalecki shouldn't be hard to bring in with his record, but...I don't see much you can do against Shepherd."

"No. But I know Shepherd's men. Their wives call me every day, looking to bend my ear about how they won't go to the hospital," said Misha, his eyes flicking down toward the bloody sedan out front, "The police are waiting for them."

Jensen flicked ash and watched the wind carry it away. It felt like yesterday the preacher was taking him, HIM, aside, to pray for Misha's troubled soul, to set a Godly example. Even after Misha had left high school for the Haiti mission with the rest of his family, that little prayer remained branded on Jensen's heart.

"You gonna pray for the little thug downstairs?"

Misha smiled. "Even assholes need an advocate."

"That include me?"

"It includes everyone. God does not withhold His love from sinners, any more than you would fault a man stuck on the side of the road with a flat tire. It is in His nature to help the broken, for we are His creation," he said, remembering that first cigarette when they were kids, warm and wet from Jensen's mouth like a kiss once removed, "He delights in your existence."

Jensen smiled. "I gotta go soon, but...it's good to see you again."

"How so?"

Jensen ground his cigarette into the dirt, narrowly missing the body Misha had buried earlier that day. "You're the nicest guy I know."

* * *

TBC


	3. The Block Party

**Aaaah I love writing this story**

* * *

Jared leaned against the tunnel in a white suit and panama hat, twin sunsets reflected in his shades. A train shuffled overhead, and he watched Detective Ackles approach through a shower of pinwheeling leaves.

He pushed off the brick wall. "How's Father Collins?"

Jensen's eyes swiveled toward the convent. "Don't see much lovin' in a penguin nest," he said, "So do I need to bring a bottle of wine to Shepherd's thing tonight or is this more of a hot dogs and bouncey castle kind of deal?"

Jared snorted. "Shepherd doesn't get out of bed in the morning unless he's snorting coke off a Kobe steak. He might not be the sharpest guy, but..." he said, touching the brim of his hat, "Drug dealers know how to throw a block party."

* * *

Every fifth house had a different band playing. Four old men sang blues from the roof of a schoolbus, a Swedish death metal cello quartet headbanged in someone's yard, and down a sidestreet Jensen caught a revival tent lit from within like a kaliedascope.

"This is amazing." Jensen admitted, though he noted the kid at the street corner checking twenty dollar bills with a felt-tip marker. Jared went up to her.

"How's business Clara?"

She smiled. "Folks are thirsty tonight."

He pulled out a small plastic bag with a 'K' on the label and stuffed it in her front hoodie pocket. "Wanna be the most popular girl at school tonight?"

Her eyes widened. "I can pay you back in two weeks-"

He waved his hand. "Early birthday gift, say hi to your mom for me."

She thanked him, and turned as a boy walked up asking what she had for sale.

"Come on," said Jared, taking Jensen's arm, "Dizzy's playing tonight, he's got a new song."

"Holy crap, they booked Dizzy?!"

Dubstep pulsed in the night. They passed two kids twerking in a circle of on-lookers, a boy dressed as a robot on stilts and the girl dressed as a sexy librarian with a whip. Further down, a beautiful, bored Ukranian dancer hung upside from a stripper pole by one leg, where flames shot out the top every few seconds. Jensen caught her eye and smiled, but she let her paper fan fall open and waved it lazily, not smiling back.

"What'd you give that girl?"

Jared smiled. "It's new. Shepherd calls it Kafka."

"Cuz it makes you feel like a bug?"

"Cuz you smoke enough of it you'll think you're dead."

"Shepherd never struck me as a reader."

"He's not generally, no."

A fight broke out. One of the boys was pushed to the ground, covering his head as the other four took turns kicking him. But even two minutes of that wore them down, and losing interest they took his wallet and walked away.

"At least they were boys." said Jared, "Girl fights are the worst. Boys might circle each other for a minute before landing a punch, but once chicks know the score they'll fly at each other tooth and nail, drawing anybody watching in with them."

Jensen studied the kid on the ground, who looked both ways and ran home. "He looks about ten."

"Yeah," said Jared, recalling his first kill at age twelve, "Starting younger every day."

Jared led him by the elbow until they were ten feet away, where boys in skinny jeans and glow bracelets bounced to the beat. Dizzy sang in a liquor store parking lot beside a riced up Crown Vic, sweating beneath the glare of klieg lights.

_With an uptown voodoo I'm sharp like GQ_  
_Don't rush me sugar cuz this is just a preview_  
_Define and see divine androgyny_  
_Tilda and Bowie on the movie marquee_  
_I watch you sleeping like a ninja on the ceiling_  
_A mercenary agent of tantric healing_  
_My song goes long like Davidic psalms_  
_And hits the press like an Irish carbomb_  
_Drag like Hoover when I'm in Vancouver_  
_Driftin' to the left but I got the right maneuver_  
_Other rhymers are rank, the engine won't crank,_  
_They're climbing uphill on an empty tank._  
_A rose won't linger for an old left-winger_  
_But if you got the honey then I got the stinger_  
_So let me expand my international brand_  
_Screw the Big Mouse, we're gonna go to Dizzyland_

Jared raised his arms to dance, moving seamlessly with the crowd. He moved well, jacket stretched across his wide shoulders as strangers pressed all around him. Jensen stuffed his hands in his pockets, and watched him over the rim of his shades.

When the song ended everyone began to scream for more, and Jared pressed his mouth to Jensen's ear. "There's cocktails at Shepherd's house, wanna join?"

Jensen's heart skipped, but he nodded. Talk about walking into the belly of the whale... Jared grabbed his hand and pulled him along.

Shepherd's house was thrice fenced in, bamboo in the front, a steel gate, and more trees beside that, with an L-shaped pool in the back. The foyer was full of men with machine guns. Two barefoot ballerinas, a redhead and a brunette with a deep orange tan, drank wine in a room littered with floor cushions. In the next room, bodyguards sat around a moniter hooked up to a hidden camera waiting for the girls to get drunk enough to kiss.

The upstairs was more refined, no body guards, no people at all in fact. Each room was tastefully furnished around a central art piece, a sculpture of Lilith on the ceiling, portraits of all the dogs the Russians ever shot into space, a glass case filled with microscopes that, upon closer inspection, were used to examine flower designs constructed from butterfly scales.

At the end of the hall was an empty sitting room with a table and tea on a serving tray. They took the two empty chairs and waited.

Jensen lifted a teacup. "I don't see any sugar," he said, "Where is everyone?"

"They're around," Jared replied, "The servants here are very good."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, but when he looked down again, a silver sugar bowl had been placed by his elbow.

A knock came at the door, and an old Mexican with an AK-47 addressed Jared. "Mister Shepherd will see you now," he said, glancing at Jensen, "Who's he?"

Jared smiled, and placed a warm hand on the top of Jensen's thigh. "He's mine."

Jensen blushed, but said nothing, and they were ushered to a different part of the house.

Shepherd's office was lit like high noon, natural light streaming through the artificial windows. A tiger-skin stretched on the floor, with buckheads mounted along the length of the back wall. A blank-eyed girl sat on his leather sofa, with Shepherd twirling a finger in her blonde hair.

"What happened to her?" Jared asked.

"Fell down the K-hole," said Shepherd, hooking a thumb at two of his men, "Enjoy."

The men smiled, and led the girl into another room. Jensen heard the rustle of a plastic tarp on the floor, where body parts had been swept into the corner. The door shut on her placid expression as the two men grabbed her by the wrists and began to pull.

"Good evening boss." Jared began.

There was a sound like someone tearing a steak in half next door, and men laughing. Shepherd poured Scotch into two glasses. "Who's your boy?"

Jared snaked an arm around Jensen's waist. "Not for sale."

"Ah, too bad," he said, handing Jensen a snifter, "Known Jared a while then?"

Jensen smiled. "I'm from this neighborhood actually."

"Excellent, then you can help us with a little errand."

Jared's fingers dug into Jensen's side. "Who?"

"We got a package last night," said Shepherd, his fingernails still bloody from hiding the bodies, "I need you to send it back for me."

"Who do I give it to?"

"Everybody," said Shepherd, his face darkening, "Everybody inside St. Jude's."

* * *

TBC


	4. Ghost Riding the Whip

**Wrote this whole chapter on tiny hotel stationary. The boys finally get to make out, though more's to come in the next chapter!**

* * *

Jensen listened to his heels echo. Outside of Sheppard's house, the street was empty save for a fat woman pushing a cart full of scrap metal, and Jared walked alongside her to chat.

"How's the diet?"

She shook her head. "I been doin' that grapefruit thing, though some days it be hard on my stomach."

"You look great. It's hard I know, sometimes it'll be late and I'll see that candy bar in the freezer..."

They passed a row of vacant houses, post-war models with a chain of morning glories along the fence. Kids set off a firecracker in the middle of the street and ran back to the yard with their hands over their ears, the mortar leaving little black fingers on the concrete.

"Sheppard's got a nice set-up," said Jensen, as the woman turned the corner, "That why you stuck around? Hoping to take his place?"

Jared smiled. "Nah, he's got people pushing him from up top, making sure he meet his quota, flying back and forth to Columbia. I only have to answer to one guy, and I can go where I want."

Jensen could just make out the ocean from where they stood, the horizon cut in half by silent lightning. "Why don't you leave?"

"I wouldn't know anybody. Everyone in this neighborhood knows everyone else, names, birthdays... Cuz when your tire's flat or you need to run power from another house, you gotta _be_ neighbors," he said, looking into his hat, "I don't see myself in a condo where nobody talks and I can't even open the window."

"It's Sheppard that's keepin' them poor."

"You kidding, he props up most of their jobs. All the bars on the waterfront, the tracks, the dance clubs, he's bitten off a little of everything in this town."

"That why everybody looks so chewed-up?"

Jared laughed, and Jensen looked away, wishing the sidewalk weren't so narrow. "It's not funny."

"You don't understand," said Jared, setting the hat low over his eyes, "No one tells jokes here."

"I get that impression."

They walked in the shadow of oak trees, stepping over yellow circles of streetlamp light like vampires as Jared plucked muscadines from over his head. He popped a grape in his mouth and offered some to Jensen.

He shook his head. "Those things are a pain, all those seeds..."

"Oh I don't spit anything out," said Jared, his teeth glowing faintly in the gloom, "I like that they're a mess to eat."

They arrived at Jared's car. The tower of St. Jude's rose above the trees, and crows flew off a dead animal as the bells tolled ten o'clock. Jensen worked up his nerve. "You can't kill a priest in his own church," he said finally, "It's a terrible place to die."

Jared opened the car door. "Didn't know there was a good one."

"Look, I know this great club that just opened," said Jensen, hoping to buy Misha some time, "Ever had a girl do a Chinese cartwheel on you?"

"What is that?"

"I dunno, been meaning to find out," said Jensen, leaning in as if the street were listening, "Come on, it's like five miles from here, my treat."

Jared tapped his thumbs against the steering wheel. "You wanna do something..._really_ fun?"

* * *

Molino Road was a straight shot running parallel to the water, and any time after five p.m. you could have laid down in the street and not see any traffic. Jared sucked the remaining foam from a champagne bottle and tossed it from the convertabile.

Jensen gripped the door. With the hood down it felt like they were going a lot faster. "Can you slow down?"

For answer, Jared took Jensen's left hand and placed it on the steering wheel. "On three, okay?"

"What's on three?"

Jared unbuckled the seatbelt, pulling his feet up. "One..."

"What are you doing?"

"Two..."

"Get back here!"

On three, Jared pulled himself from the driver's seat and climbed onto the hood of the car, his back to the windshield. Jensen grabbed the steering wheel, the car still hurtling a good sixty miles an hour. After a minute, Jared stood upright and smiled over his shoulder, long hair whipping in the wind.

"This is fucking awesome," Jared shouted, "You should get up here!"

"Get back in the car!"

Jared laughed. Tires skidded thru the rain puddles, so fast they kicked up rainbows. And pulling a .45 from his waistband Jared began shooting out streetlamps, the glass tinkling in a fine, yellow spray. He was an excellent shot, and took no more than a moment to aim before putting each one out. By the time he finished, there was nothing but a faint electric hum, and Molino Road was completely dark.

"Are we done?" asked Jensen, as Jared dropped behind the wheel again.

"Got one more stop."

"Another job?"

"Yeah. Come with me?"

"I don't like killing."

"It's Artie Manseaux."

Jensen bristled. "The cop killer?"

Jared laughed, headlights swiveling across the houses as he turned his car. "See? You learned to like it already."

Jared parked a few blocks down from Manseaux's house and paused to polish his glasses on his shirt. Jensen snorted. "You should get contacts."

"The glasses help," said Jared, checking his .45 for a loaded chamber, "It's important to appear harmless."

The house was a cookie-cutter two-story with a fenced-in pool and the smell of menudo. Jared picked his way through the back door, while Jensen studied the surrounding apartments, waiting for dogs or a face at the window. But if they were being watched, he did not see any sign of it.

Upon entering the kitchen, Jared lay his hat down on the counter and listened for a while, trying to decide between the dining room and the hallway. Finally, he fired three shots into the wall to his right, sending up a cloud of plaster dust, and waited. Someone spoke in the next room, and he eased open the door with his fingertips.

Manseaux lay in bed reading, a gun on the nightstand, one hand trying to hold his wound shut. His Bible lay open, freckled with blood.

"Please..." he begged, blood bubbling in his throat as Jared pressed the hot barrel to his forehead.

When it was finished, Jared moved toward the rest of the house. Jensen clutched his arm. "Where are you going?" he whispered.

"I have to clear the house."

"But he's dead."

"Sheppard's orders. Anyone who's with Manseaux, I get an extra fifty thousand per hit."

Jensen's heart sank at the thought, but released his grip anyway. As Jared took the stairs, Jensen followed the sound of a TV, angling his body against the flowery wallpaper. A strip of light shone at the end of the hallway, while upstairs he heard furniture breaking.

He toed open the door. Curtains wafted from an open window. _Tom & Jerry_ played in one corner, the mouse grabbing the end of the cat's shotgun and stretching the barrel around the house until it pointed at the back of the cat's head.

Eye watched him from the slats of a closet door. He opened it, and three boys, the dead man in miniature, sat Indian style on the floor, the oldest pointing a gun at him. He couldn't have been more than eight.

Jensen put a finger to his lips and showed them his wallet. "I'll give you five hundred dollars for that gun."

The children eyed the money, and listened to his offer.

"The main road's three blocks from here," he whispered, "Put on your shoes, hail a cab, and go to Southside Tavern. Ask for Bob, tell him Ol' Green Eyes sent you. He'll find you beds."

They hesitated, preferring the solid weight of the gun. But then, hearing more shots through the ceiling, they tossed it at his feet, snatched the money, and clambered out the window. He waited until their footsteps faded, then turned off the TV.

Back in the kitchen, Jared placed his hat on his head, his right jacket sleeve dark with blood. He'd sustained a long cut, and insisted they return to his house for first aid before hitting St. Jude's.

While he searched for iodine in the medicine cabinet, Jensen sat on the edge of Jared's bed, hands dangling between his knees. He should have done this earlier, before the house call.

"I can't sleep now," said Jared, his arm newly bandaged, "I mean, that last guy was really close, jobs like that you either wanna sleep for a week or run laps in the parking lot."

Jensen stared at Jared's hat on the dresser. "Jared..." he croaked.

Jared's brow knit. "What is it?"

Jensen stood, pulling his gun in front of him. A gangster was one thing, but he had to keep Misha out of harm's way. "You have been charged with the deaths of Tony and Edith Snow..."

Jensen knew from the get-go he couldn't arrest Sheppard, it would bring down the entire local economy. Hundreds of people in this neighborhood were bankrolled by the drug market. But he could take out Jared. Enforcers were easily replaced, but an arrest would send a sharp message to the right people.

Jared said nothing, laying his bloody towel aside. He must have seen this coming. The Snows been his first kills, an age ago it seemed.

Jensen set his teeth. "Stay where you are."

It was a small room, barely six feet between them, and Jared was steadily closing the gap. Hadn't they been here before, laughing in their fathers' suits some hot summer day?

_"Is that aftershave?"_

_Jensen blushed. "Yeah, I swiped it from my dad's travel bag."_

_"It's nice," said Jared, putting a hand to Jensen's cheek, "You smell like a kiss."_

Jared shaped his hands around the back of Jensen's head, thumbs pressed into the soft flesh beneath his jaw. Jensen still had his gun in both hands, now right up against Jared's heart.

"Step back..." he whispered, voice trembling, afraid the gun might jump in his hands. Jared tilted his face, pushing Jensen's head away to one side.

You never forget your first kiss. Jared had been wearing a hat back then, and Jensen, eyes open to study young Jared's eyelashes as he closed in on him, watched the hat fall to the floor. He'd lost most of the details of that day, how long the kiss had lasted, whose house they'd been at, but the hat stayed with him.

Jared pressed a warm, wet mouth to his throat, breathing him in. Jensen tried not to move, one knee between Jared's legs and the other pinned against the edge of the bed.

The bells of St. Jude's rang in midnight, soft and at a safe distance. When the gun hit the floor, Jensen felt Jared smile against his skin, and allowed himself to be pushed gently onto the bed.


	5. In Search of Lost Time

**Thank you zephyr_hb for the Spanish translation! :***

* * *

Detective Ackles pressed his face into a pillow, studying the bedroom. Jared kept his place like a hotel, date palms in one corner, a pair of birdcages, and a massive headboard trimmed in scrollwork. For years this bed remained untouched, Jared preferring to sleep on the floor, and even now the memory of his old house, and the love he should have claimed, re-surfaced.

A wall clock ticked behind them and a full moon rose, giving the room an unearthly glare. With one hip planted against Jensen's cock and his left ankle wrapped around the detective's leg, Jared grabbed a fistful of hair and angled Jensen's body into his in a move he'd practiced on countless green-eyed rent boys.

"You can hold onto your gun," Jared whispered, teeth set against Jensen's ear, "If it makes you feel better."

He unbuttoned the top of Jensen's shirt one-handed, the other hand shaped behind Jensen's skull and listening to Jensen breathe as he trailed silent, open-mouthed kisses down his throat. With the shirt half-open, Jared dragged his mouth down a window of warm skin while looking up at Jensen through his bangs, and Jensen lay still, his belly tensing beneath Jared's teeth.

"I have something to tell you," said Jared, his face half-cast in shadow, "It's important that you listen."

Jared moved slowly, bracketing Jensen's hips and bringing Jensen's hands up to slide across the tops of his thighs. Jensen was smeared with sweat, and smelled Jared's mix of tobacco, gin, and aftershave on himself.

"I had a dream the night after you left," Jared began, "You stood outside my window, while the houses, the city, burned around you. You never opened your mouth and yet...you spoke to me."

His belt clicked, the steel buckle snapping in his hand. "The words were in Spanish, and I had to ask someone what they meant, but even then I knew they meant my death," he said, "That the next time I saw you, it was the end of the world."

He pulled his belt free, and held it over the side of the bed to clatter to the floor. "And then I woke up."

Jared undid his slacks, pushing Jensen's unwilling hand inside to the tattoo of the Spanish poem. Jensen swallowed. He'd be lying if he hadn't wrung himself out a thousand times thinking of Jared over the years, but he had orders from downtown...

"That morning I fucked a widow," said Jared, lip curling at the memory of some stranger lowering her hungry cunt lips over his virgin cock, "And with the money, I inked your words to memory until a day would come when I might understand them."

Jensen traced the words in the dark. "What did I say?"

Jared smiled. "_La gloria dada al fuego es solo cenisas_."

"What does it mean?"

Jared leaned in. "You tell me." he said carefully, as if the poem had awaited it's interpreter for many years and Jensen's words were the final ingredient in some alchemical chain reaction neither of them really understood.

Jensen swallowed, his voice cracking. "Glory given to fire...is only ashes."

Jared had a technician's grasp of community, befriending neighbors as easily as he dispatched them, with the impartiality of one no longer weighed down by consequences. Save one. Had he done nothing, had he never risked that first kiss, they would have remained friends. Had he pushed a little, they might have become lovers. Instead Jensen had left, and Jared walked the gap between two potentially happy lives.

He was very close, a strand of hair touching Jensen's mouth. Doubt crept in, the moon hanging huge over the trees as if to warn, if even the heavens could not contain the Mystery of love, how could Jared expect anything from one man? "It was only a dream," said Jared, though clearly convinced it was more than that, "But I have to believe that we would always meet again."

Jensen searched his face, heart thudding in his chest. For a long moment he held his breath, afraid to break the silence or whatever precarious spell held the room together. Jared read the fear in his eyes.

"Do you still want to kill me?"

Jensen took his hand away, reluctantly. "You put down a lot of people."

"Sheppard put them in front of me," he said, as if people were milk bottles at a carnival booth, "It's just a job."

Jensen set his teeth. "That's not a _job_."

Jared nodded, pulling back. "You're right. You're right. I can't take back what I've done."

Jensen lifted a few inches as Jared's weight left the bed, sinking into the shadows. Jensen called his name, half expecting an echo in that vast space, and he put out his hand to test the shapes in the dark. Somewhere on the other side of the room was the shuffle of fabric, and though Jared wore all white Jensen could not follow him save for the moonlight reflected in Jared's left eye, faint as the path of a meteorite. All else faded around that single mote of light, as a dancer will stare at one spot to avoid vertigo.

Another of Dizzy's songs floated down the street.

_"And if I never find her_  
_My second chance, my painful reminder,_  
_Climb that starry stair_  
_And when you dream I won't be there..."_

Party music pulsed through the window, and Jensen remembered that those people were under his protection. Jared had to be removed. And yet... perhaps turning Jared away from the Industry was a matter of creating incentive. He thought of Sheppard, how he kept Jared in line with fast cars and the lure of proximity to power. Perhaps all Jared needed...was a new underwriter.

"What are you doing?" Jensen asked.

Three hard steps and Jared latched onto his wrists, nails marking the skin, and pulled him into a rough embrace at the foot of the bed. Jared's mouth pressed to his, his naked body throwing off heat like a wood stove, every hard curve burning through Jensen's expensive suit. And then breaking the kiss, Jared put a hand on Jensen's shoulder and pushed him to his knees.

"If you've come to kill me, if this is our only night together," he said, forcing Jensen's mouth open with his thumb to accept his thick, dripping cock, "Then I want to last."

And planting Jensen's hands on his ass, Jared thrust in, cockhead hitting the roof of his mouth.

"Fuck..." Jared whispered hoarsely, as he bottomed out with Jensen's lips wrapped around the base of his cock.

Jensen dragged the tip of his tongue along the bottom, sliding all the way back down until Jared's cock cut off his air. _Fuck_ he needed this. A part of him wondered if, had he taken up Jared's offer back then, he could have avoided the years spent with his face in Sheriff Morgan's lap, passed around like a bag of potato chips until he'd sucked out more state secrets by age 22 than J. Edgar Hoover in all his crinolines. If Jared had bothered to do his homework, he would not have put himself at the mercy of the greatest, tenderest, most exquisite cocksucker in the Metro Police Department.

Jared panted, sweat rolling down his flat belly. "Damn you got...an educated mouth."

Jensen pulled him closer, fingers digging into Jared's back, and Jared knew he wouldn't last as long as he hoped. He came in a hot rush, Jensen's mouth filling with the acid taste of smoker's jizz, and he spat it across the floor before going back to suck out the rest.

"Fuck, okay stop..." said Jared, pushing him away. He pulled him up, mouth dragging along the front of his body until their teeth clicked on the bitter taste of his own cock. Jensen peeled of his jacket without disconnecting, while Jared rushed him out of his slacks, pushing them down with his bare foot.

Jared gathered Jensen's face in his hands, the brief sanity of post-coital release threatening to undo whatever magic he'd created. Taking a shaky breath, as if this really were his first time, he yanked the coverlet from the bed. "Get down."

Jensen did so, face forward as Jared followed on his hands and knees. He watched Jared's hand close over his heart, fingers curled possessively, and any reluctance he'd harbored evaporated. Jared was right. Jensen had to return some day. They had always been less without each other.

Jared was hard again, cock pressed against the crack of Jensen's ass as their bodies molded together in the sticky night air. As kids, Jared had built a dirty reputation, bragging that he'd had one girl, then her sister, then her mother, until he had everyone thinking he'd die of dick-rot. It was a lie, all for Jensen's benefit, so when that young Jared finally made his move Jensen couldn't turn him down for lack of experience.

"You don't have keep working here, to die in this place. Come away," said Jensen, "You can start over."

Jared's mouth pressed against his, saying nothing. He would never live to walk outside this town, he knew he'd run out of luck before that happened. Like a sailor too long on the ocean, He assumed all places were like home, that there was nothing left worth exploring in the world. Aside from death, Jensen was his only escape.

Forcing his lips open, Jared ripped a sigh from Jensen's throat, and then an even more tremulous noise as Jared hooked an arm under Jensen's knee and slid a wet finger up his ass.

"Here," he said, rolling Jensen over, "Relax."

With Jensen face down and ass high in the air, Jared pressed his massive hands to spread him wide, and Jensen's teeth sank into his plush lower lip, cock scraping the sheets as he strained to look over his shoulder. Their eyes met for a moment, and then his brain fogged over as Jared pressed his mouth to his ass and began to _suck_.

"Dammit!" Jensen shouted, muffled by the mattress as he buried his face in the pillows, his cock leaking a medallion as Jared's tongue curled inside him, widening him with a wicked wet heat, fingers digging into Jensen's movie-star perfect ass to keep him in place. Once Jensen was more sedate, Jared reached under the mattress for supplies.

His mouth left, and cold air slapped Jensen's bare skin. There was just enough moonlight to see by, no schoolboys fumbling for the hole tonight, and he bunched the sheets in his fists as he listened to paper tearing, the ominous snap of a lid. Then something pressed against him, and all the blood rushed away when he realized it was the first inch of Jared's bagged dick.

Jared pressed a flat hand on Jensen's back. "Slow now..."

The head met some resistance, stretching him wide, and then disappeared, the plump, pink rim sealing around his cock and closing down to shape itself to him. Jensen's eyes shut, his left cheek pressed to the pillow, mouth open as he sucked in air, held it for a few seconds, and then huffed it out quickly. Once Jared was all the way in, he leaned his forehead to Jensen's back and let them settle.

The clock ticked. Had it only been a few hours ago they were blushing at each other in a moldy hotel room? When he thought he'd had enough time, Jared shook his bangs out, one hand reaching beneath to grab Jensen's cock, and thrust so deep it made Jensen's eyes roll.

Jared smiled and leaned close, sucking a blue lovebite beneath Jensen's ear as his dick twitched in Jared's fist. "Still wanna kill me?"

Jensen backed up, milking the length of him. "We gonna fuck or fight?"

Jared laughed, straightening up and grabbing Jensen's hips, plowing into him until the headboard rattled.

"Come on, don't just lay there and take it, _fuck back_," said Jared, punctuating each word with a vicious punch of his hips, "You...arrogant...fucking..._pig_."

"Shut...UP and...don't stop..."

Jared flicked the bangs from his eyes. "I've fucked better...Chinese call girls...fucking cheap ass...you're no better than...the bitches who do this...for a _dollar_."

Jensen's body bowed, panting as he fought the urge to fuck his own hand or even the inviting silk sheet beneath him. This was too _good_ to stop. Fuck he _needed_ this, one solid glorious pounding until the room stank of sex and his ass was a sloppy used-up meatsock around Jared's baseball bat of a cock. "You couldn't...afford an...Asian girl...you probably...fucked a Mexican boy..._dipped in soy sauce_."

Jared growled and fucked him mercilessly, the trash talk getting him even harder. "Fuck you don't...know what you..._do_ to me."

Though he wasn't doing all the work, Jensen quickly tired. When Jared saw him reach for his dick, he pulled out. "No I want to see you."

Jensen was red raw, and flinched when Jared rolled him on his back and drove in a second time. "Easy," Jared taunted, taking Jensen's cock in his practiced hand, "Won't be long now..."

Jensen snarled but was swallowed up by Jared's mouth, sucking away the bitterness until he yielded and kissed back, levering upward to take Jared even deeper.

Jared's jackhammer beat chiseled at his resolve, each slap of their bodies a clock hand ticking backwards in time a second, an hour, every day they'd never had together, stretching back over the lonely gulf of years between this night and that fateful kiss in a house he couldn't even remember.

The air electrified. After his dream, Jared was instilled with the belief that love could retroactively alter his fate, that if could bridge time and convince Jensen to share his bed, not this one but the yellow foam mattress of his youth, fate would be rewritten and the universe would withdraw all charges against him. He only needed one thing now.

"Jensen," he said, the light in his eyes so faint it seemed the wrong word would blow it out, "Do you want to kill me?"

Jensen considered the question, and this time his heart opened, as if it didn't know the risk. "No," he said, as the windows began to glow with sunlight that had taken fifteen years to reach them, "I want to love you."

Suddenly the room burst into blue flame, their bodies tumbling sideways into a world too bright, too crappy to be a dream. Books, dirty clothes, shelves full of broken dumpster swag, the ever present stink of gray water that came with ocean-side apartments. They are thinner, pinker. He looked up at Jared's, young Jared, terrified face.

Jensen held him close. "Keep going," he begged, afraid that stopping would somehow jam whatever current hummed through their bodies, all their futures crystallizing around this event, and fry them both, "This was always supposed to happen."

Jared looked to one side. "My old house..."

"Don't think about it," he said, pulling Jared's face down in a clumsy, schoolboy kiss, "Not even for a second."

Jared moaned into his mouth, fucking a sweaty imprint into the bed. Waves of pleasure-pain rolled over them as he jerked Jensen's cock, but he skated the edge of finishing, wanting to draw it out as long as possible.

Jensen watched through heavy-lidded eyes. "Never...thought you...wanted this...all those girls...""

Something broke in Jared, soft as spiderthread. "I lied," he said, choking, his words rushing out, "I never fucked those girls, I never fucked _anyone_ back then, I didn't...I didn't..."

Jared steadied his hand against the wall, salt sweat dripping down the side of his face as he struggled to hold back, while in the present day he grabbed the headboard and slammed it over and over until it dented the plaster.

Toward the end, foreheads pressed together as they breathed into each other's open mouths, Jensen gave him the okay, but Jared shook his head. "I don't want to finish."

"But..."

"I don't want you to leave me again," he said, his whole body aching with loneliness, afraid he'd wake up and find Jensen on the other end of a prophecy he was only a small part of, cursed to never be together, "Promise you'll stay."

They do not grind out quickly, their climax following some deeper wavelength only they could access, the shadow of every fuck they'd never shared slowly coming together in a complex, layered, planet-sized molecule that rose and fell and rose a little higher each time, never quite cresting, never quite enough, until heat blossomed in their bellies and the two houses overlapped and love spiked their guts in a mutual orgasm so hard they tasted blood.

The moon disappeared behind the trees, and dogs howled after it until their shadows lengthened and faded altogether. Jared sucked in a lungful of air, back arched painfully, and then toppled onto Jensen in the now darkened bedroom.

* * *

Later that night, Sheppard spoke to Jared over the phone. He stared it a moment, drumming his fingers against his chest. "Where's Jared?"

Party lights danced over Rachel's face. "Dunno, his place?" she said, eyeing a raver boy, "Why?"

"He just called to say he's taking some time off. He'll get back to me. Says he'll ask around for someone to fill in while he's away. Fucking..._brat_, " he said, the tower of Saint Jude's looming nearby, "Wanna make some money?"

"I'm having a good time right here."

"Then stay. But keep an eye peeled."

"What for?"

"Wait for Jared. Next time you see him, I don't care who he's with, put a bullet in his brain. In the meantime," he said, walking toward his garage, where he kept the kerosene, "I have an appointment with Father Collins."

* * *

TBC


End file.
